


The Common Bond

by missmuffet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Alternative Lifestyles, M/M, Magical Realism, tunalock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:49:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffet/pseuds/missmuffet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sherlock advances, the doctor can see contempt written across his face all too easily. "This is it," he begins, "my punishment. This is what happens to men who like to think themselves as Gods."</p>
<p>It is in that moment that John knows the legends have it all wrong.</p>
<p>----</p>
<p>An AU in which Doctor Watson's flatmate is so much more than people think him as and the two venture down a very slippery slope indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Common Bond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katzensprotte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katzensprotte/gifts).



> I'm quite aware this isn't finished at all, however, a month or so ago, I promised a tunalock fic to katzensprotte when the haters were being extreme douches. My challenge to myself was to take the prompt as seriously as possible, which of course led into the magical realism prospect. Sadly though, I'm leaving on vacation so I'm afraid I don't have very many chapters just yet. Though I'll be writing in the car this week!

    Trust amongst friends -- _he translates this to comrades and then to brothers_ \-- is paramount. The selection process by which one chooses whether to allow someone access to the munitions necessary to either literally or metaphorically stab oneself in the back is not always one of choice. However, when presented with the proper circumstances, the relationships we _choose_ to partake in can be reliable -- extraordinarily so. For any other circumstances, what or whom we are left to get by with can be make us into something remarkable.   
  
    This is one such circumstance.   
  
**| x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x |**  
  
    The recommendation came from a friend not heard of since days spent studying for exams into the early hours, nights with three continents worth of women and an impossible dream. In that moment, Mike Stamford provided John Watson with the first and last resource he needed on the path for stabilizing himself. The address was written on the heat protecting sheath of cardboard meant to go between a hand (that was anything but stable) and a cuppa. The handwriting was affectionately messy, legible out of a strong will to help an old friend and took particular efforts not ordinarily considered significant. Naturally, John picked up on absolutely none of this. In a few months time, however, should he still keep the scrap of information, he might stand a chance at analyzing this.   
  
    Of _deduction_.   
  
    “Baker Street?” the veteran marveled aloud. He thinks of the location, of an enormous predicted rent his meager army pension won’t be able to support for long. Despite it, he holds out for a hope - and a rather terrible one at that. Perhaps the ‘mate’ Stamford has referred to is looking for a fifth flatmate. Perhaps they can cut the cost of living quite effectively. “Near the Academy for music?”   
  
    Stamford nodded and gestured toward the recently acquired cane. “Has it’s own Tube station,” he remarked cheerfully.  
  
 **| x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x | | x |**  
  
    The walk from the Underground to building 221 wasn’t nearly as difficult as John had braced himself for. His gait is temporarily improved, if for nothing else than the fact that he would prefer to get this ordeal and the inevitable refusal. What he found lurking behind the door instead... isn’t lurking at all, but rather, an elderly woman with a warm smile and brush in hand. “You must be the doctor!” she exclaimed, setting down the brush to something off to the side, out of sight.   
      
    With what knowledge he has of reading people, he cleared his throat and stepped back. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t realize I’d be interpreting. I didn’t mean to disturb - I can come back at a later --”  
  
    “Oh, you’re not disturbing me at all! No, come in, come in. There we are...” Stepping back to allow the door to open further, she ushered him inside while subtly flattening the unbrushed half of her hair. “Had a call not more than an hour ago. An associate, I think he called ‘im. Absolutely thoughtful. Yes, he explained, well, what he explained to you, I suppose!” A small laugh followed. “Just give me a mo’, dear. Let me grab my coat. He keeps it so chilly upstairs....” As the older woman disappeared, into what appeared to be a kitchen attached to the foyer and then around another corner, John took the opportunity to look around.  
  
    An off white, vintage print wallpaper served as the only decoration in the foyer, unless one counted the umbrella holder. (Oddly enough, there were several dents in it, as though someone had beaten it with something heavier or kicked it repeatedly.) Beyond that was a sturdy set of wooden stairs and across them, perhaps attached, was ... _a conveyor belt?_ He blinked once, reassessing his vision before he could confirm that it was _indeed_ a conveyor belt, and a sopping wet one at that.  That left a very narrow, one lane, section of the staircase for pedestrian traffic.   
  
    “Do you receive a lot of packages?” he asked as the woman reappeared, now bundled in a patterned jacket.   
  
    “Me?” she asked, already starting up the narrow space of the stairs. “Hardly ever. But that  contraption sees enough usage on a daily basis. Don’t let the noise startle you if you turn in early.” He didn’t miss the fact that she spoke to him as if he had already agreed to any flat-sharing. “That’s just him going out with,” a slight pause as she moved to unlock the door upstairs, “his things. Nothing to it, really. I just hope you weren’t looking for a quiet household.” She stepped aside and John followed suit. There was a collective trail of water puddles spaced out with a yard or so between them that lead to what looked like a closet. Past that, any available elevated surface of the common room was cluttered. Books, chemistry paraphernalia, and even a skull, all with a thin layer of dust over them. A dank, musty smell. It was hardly impressive, but it would make for an argument of lowering the cost of rent, if need be.  
  
    “He doesn’t come out much anymore, I’m afraid.”  
  
    “Who doesn’t?”  
  
    “Sherlock, of course. Didn’t your friend tell you? No? Oh...” She cleared her throat. Stepping deeper into the living space, she picked up a skull -- _**skull**?!_ \--  she continued, “Sherlock Holmes. Fancies himself a bit of a mad scientist, as you can see. He’s the one whose name the lease is in for this floor and the lowest floor. There’s a room upstairs if you’ll be needing it.”  
  
    “Why wouldn’t I?” John asked, still turning in a small circle to examine the room.  
  
    “Sherlock doesn’t use his much, I’m afraid - can’t. I’ve kept it tidy as I can, though it is a bit unpractical. I just -- the cane, dear. I can’t help but notice. I’ve got a hip myself that gives me trouble more often than not. It might be easier on you, not having to march up the stairs to see yourself off to bed.” She doesn’t notice the way John grips his cane tighter, nor does she notice the tremble to his hand. He’s not broken, he can take care of himself just fine, thank you very much.   
  
“Upstairs,” he says at last. “I prefer a room with a view.”


End file.
